And drinking again of the magical glass,
He is proud as a lion when passion-stirred!
But drinking once more of the liquor, alas,
He loses the shape of the angel, and takes on the shape of an ass!
Lost Lands
I mind me once in boyhood when the mist
Swirled round me, ash of pearl and amethyst,
How, in an unknown, difficult, high place,
I pushed the green boughs backward from my face,
And with a fire along the blood, a cry,